


i'm dreaming of a white christmas (with you)

by mouseymightymarvellous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age of Ultron? What is this AoU you speak of??, BAMF Darcy Lewis, F/M, Meet the (grand)Parents, Meet-Cute, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Spans the Events of Captain America: Winter Soldier, Star Spangled Chorus Girls, Steve is Not Dealing with waking up in the future, The Avengers Are Bros, The Ghosts of (Steve's) Christmases Past, in a compassionate kind of way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8956936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouseymightymarvellous/pseuds/mouseymightymarvellous
Summary: Five times Darcy reminded Steve of his past, and one time she made him believe he could have a future. (It’s about reconciling the person you never got to be with the person you’re becoming. It’s about learning to look at the past without grief catching in your throat. It’s about learning to look to the future without the heavy weight of your ghosts dragging you back.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [briony_larkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/briony_larkin/gifts).



> Tony poached Jane (and Darcy) immediately following the events at Greenwich (I’ve moved those back slightly to about the beginning of September 2013). Steve has mostly been based out of the New York S.H.I.E.L.D. office, with Natasha and Clint occasionally in residence. Bruce was commandeered by Tony to be Science Bros after the Chitauri Invasion and has been working for SI. As such, this fic begins October 2013 in Avengers’ Tower.

**1.**

Steve had thought that “Star Spangled Man” had crashed into the Arctic Ocean alongside him and the Valkyrie and the Tesseract and his shield, and he couldn’t exactly see why S.H.I.E.L.D. would have bothered to fish it back out again.

But oh, how young and naive and innocent Steve had been.

Surprisingly, it’s Natasha and not Tony who introduces Steve to the impossibly long list of Captain America radio plays and comic books and television shows and books and films and merchandise. And the sheer amount of stuff with his masked face on it explodes once the dust has settled after the Chitauri are defeated and Loki and the Tesseract are both safely away from Earth. Tony might enjoy making as many references to Captain America’s various screen appearances as possible in an ongoing attempt to discomfort Steve, but it’s Natasha who delights in emailing him links to the most outrageous fan art or leaving the ugliest available merchandise on his kitchen counter in the night.

Steve doesn’t mind running errands, even for Tony, so he’s in and out of the labs somedays. He likes to be useful. The first time he stops by Dr. Foster’s lab after she’s arrived at the Tower from London, it’s to drop off a tablet with some new readings on his way back upstairs to the common levels after doing armour stress testing for Tony. He finds himself mouthing along to all too familiar lyrics and accompanying percussion that crashes down on him as he opens the door.

He’s heard this version, actually; it’s from a recent album with excellent accompanying music videos that Natasha had forwarded to him the other week. Or, okay, withluvfromrussia1957@gmail.com forwarded it to him, and he’s assuming it’s Natasha since very few people know his actual email address and even fewer of those people are Russian. (Although, most of them are spies.) Apparently, the internet has told him, the album is a “a powerful reclamation of the Captain America mythos for every minority group that has ever been barred from the American Dream”. (Steve looked up the lyrics for the album; he still isn’t all too sure about this “hip hop” stuff and some of the other new musical genres yet, but it was one of the first times that he’s seen Captain America’s face stamped on something and not felt like a dancing monkey. _This_ , Steve had thought as he listened, _this is what I stand for._ )

Steve lingers awkwardly in the doorway, looking for someone to ask permission for entrance, but if there’s anyone actually in the lab listening to the pounding music, he can’t see them. Gingerly, he threads his way past machines that look more reminiscent to the future as portrayed by the “World Exposition of Tomorrow” of the 1943 Stark Expo than of Tony’s sleek minimalism. They’re all cobbled together monstrosities full of odd angles and what look like deconstructed kitchen appliances upon second glance. Steve resists the urge to trail his hands along them, having been conditioned by two generations of Starks to not touch the equipment, lest it blow up in his face.

It seems to take a long age and several circles to finally find Dr. Foster staring fixedly at a screen in the back third of the lab.

Steve coughs, trying to get her attention without startling her, but she doesn’t seem to notice, because of the loud music or the force of her concentration, Steve isn’t sure. Hesitantly, he nudges her elbow.

“Not now, Darce,” she murmurs, dismissing him with a wave in his general direction, “I’m busy.”

“Um, actually, it’s Steve, Dr. Foster. Steve Rogers?”

Apparently that’s not enough to draw Dr. Foster’s attention from her screen in order to actually register what is going on around her, as she continues, “I’ll eat later.”

Steve wavers in place, not really sure what to do in the face of such single-mindedness. “Right then, I’ll just leave this here?”

Dr. Foster waves absently at him again, so Steve shrugs, places the tablet near her elbow but not so close as to get knocked off the table if she jerks it suddenly, and lets himself back out.

“Star Spangled Man” slides abruptly into silence with a final crash of percussion. The silence holds, echoing even louder in the sudden absence of sound, stretching the limits of the listener’s patience, but Steve waits for it. A breath, and voices suddenly breach the silence, a Gregorian Choir demanding “Who’s here to save the American Way?” with none of the patriotic zest of the Star Spangled Chorus girls. They are angry, a barely contained mob. And then silence drops once more, the demands sitting heavily until a single trembling soprano steps up to the demand: “Those of us with strength to stand when you tell us to stay down.” Steve smiles as more and more voices layer in, refrains building and circling, one never quite the same as the next as “Who Stands for America? (Make of a Hero)” crescendos into a towering whirlwind of resistance, singing back with all of the diversity and strength of the country Steve fought and died for.

He walks out of the “Foster Lab, Astrophysics (Warning: Danger of Spontaneous Wormholes, Enter At Your Own Risk)”, defiance humming in the back of his throat.

 

**2.**

Steve’s pretty sure that this is all Tony’s fault.

Which is, admittedly, maybe a bit unfair. Tony isn’t _always_ the perpetrator of jokes on Steve. It could have just as easily have been Natasha. Or Clint. It’s just that Clint has been off on a mission for the past two weeks while Natasha’s pranks tend to be much more precisely aimed. The monstrous cardboard cutout of Captain America proudly saluting anyone stepping out of the elevator and onto the lab floors doesn’t slip quite as sharply through Steve’s emotional armour as he would expect from Natasha. Being faced with a bad mimicry of his own appearance is startling, sure, and Steve’s artistic sensibilities are smarting from the horror of the strangely pixelated face and cheap material, but it’s more worthy of an eye-roll than truly bothersome. And eye-roll worthy but not actually bothersome suggests Tony’s work.

Steve considers his options, vividly aware of JARVIS and the cameras tracking the movement of even dust motes in the hall. He snaps a brisk salute at the Cardboard Captain, and strolls right on by, not willing to give Tony the satisfaction of whatever reaction he’s looking for.

“Put a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun!” Cardboard Captain America proclaims.

Loudly.

Steve absolutely does not startle, hands full with a sandwich tray pulling up into a defensive position, bread and fillings tumbling to the floor.

“Series E Defense Bonds!” Cardboard Captain America continues.

Steve glares down at the mess of sandwiches, then at Cardboard Captain America, then at the nearest camera. He sighs, and bends to clean it all up.

“Put a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun!” Cardboard Captain America repeats.

Manfully, Steve doesn’t use the tray in place of his shield to deal with the cardboard menace, and instead lets the elevator doors shut emphatically behind him.

See if Steve ever volunteers to bring down food for the labs again.

 

**3.**

When Steve meets Darcy though, it actually _is_ Tony’s fault.

Steve shows up to Tony’s Hallowe’en party only because Clint threatened to sing Christmas carols across coms for the next four months if he failed to make an appearance. Steve, he was smartly informed, couldn’t pretend that his mission took longer than expected because Clint would know if he tried stalling. He’s been trying to figure out what blackmail Nat has on Clint to pull that one off so that she can never use it again. Unfortunately for Steve’s attempts at reconnaissance, the two spies have been partners for long enough that their shared secrets are innumerable, and Steve isn’t actually sure Clint didn’t just agree because he’s that kind of terrible person.

As much as he misses them, Steve is very glad some days that none of the Howlies lived long enough to meet any of the other Avengers; he’d have to do a lot more apologetic press conferences, to start.

So, Steve shows up to the Hallowe’en party, anticipating mayhem and bacchanalia barely tempered by Pepper’s firm hand, and is somehow still surprised.

The open common area—usually brightly lit with sunshine or city lights streaming through the large windows and glinting off of all the sharp, reflective surfaces that Tony and Pepper prefer in their design—has been transformed into a dark grotto. Steve glances up, half expecting stalactites to have formed on the ceiling. The air shimmers with music and the promise of magic, and strange ghoulish figures or impossibly coloured shadows pass through the shifting half-light.

Steve is feeling extremely underdressed in his classic suit and slicked back hair.

Luck intervenes, to some capricious understanding of luck, and Tony bustles over to greet him.

“Looking good, Fred Astaire,” Tony receives him with a salacious once over. “I didn’t think you would come. You do know there’s going to be drinking, right? I know you don’t approve.”

“Hi Tony,” Steve replies, stifling his sigh. “Um, what are you supposed to be?”

Tony staggers, dramatically offended. “What am I? Has _no one_ introduced you to the marvel that is _The Addams Family_?”

Steve doesn’t bother stifling his second sigh. “No, Tony. I’ll put it on the list.”

Tony sniffs in mock approval, and straightens the lapel of his striped suit.

Steve does his best not to stare at the moustache that makes Tony look alarmingly like Howard (he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison) and tries to figure out when Tony had the time to grow the required facial hair.

“What are you supposed to be, anyways?” Tony demands. “And who managed to get you into a suit that actually fits properly?”

Steve scowls. He isn’t _that_ bad at dressing himself. “Natasha left it hanging in my closet,” he explains. “Apparently I’m James Bond.”

Tony cackles.

“It isn’t that funny,” Steve grumbles, but Tony just keeps laughing.

“I am going to have to buy that woman a drink!” Tony declares.

Steve just rolls his eyes, because it’s Tony’s party and he’s already buying everyone’s drinks.

“Well then, Double-Oh Seven,” Tony snorts, “I best find you a Bond Girl.” His mouth turns sly under his twitching moustache and his eyes glimmer with unholy glee.

“Tony,” Steve orders, “no.”

“I have just the girl in mind for you, Cap,” Tony sniggers, towing him over to a group clustered around the couches.

Steve puts up a token resistance, but if he wants Tony to leave him alone at any point this evening, he’s better off giving in now.

“Great, now, one last thing—” Tony’s still tamping down on laughter “—Fester.”

Steve looks down, confused, at where Tony has clamped him on the shoulder.

“Fester, I have only this advice for you: woo her. Admire her. Make her feel like she’s the most sublime creature on Earth.”

“What?” Steve demands, but Tony just shoves him around the arm of the couch.

Thor catches him before he falls.

“Steven!” Thor booms. “You join us on this most merry of feasting days!”

“Hi Thor,” Steve sighs, regaining his balance and taking in Thor in green pants and a green t-shirt festooned with a red belt and a yellow scarf. It’s an interesting look on the god.

“Come, join myself and my companions as we toast the thinning of the veils between worlds!” Thor orders, steering Steve to take a seat on the plush couches whose usual soft grey has been covered by crackling leather with suspicious stains.

“Let me introduce my beloved Jane Foster.“

Steve nods to the small woman, her laughing eyes actually focusing on Steve and not staying glued a computer screen or a stack of scientific journals. “We’ve met. Sort of.”

Dr. Foster laughs, a full-throated golden thing that tosses her head back and makes the small flowers strewn in her hair shake like petals in a spring wind. “I’m sorry,” she finally manages through a splitting grin, “JARVIS tells me you keep dropping things off in my lab and I keep not noticing. I tend to be… focused.”

The woman to Steve’s right snorts, and Steve swings his gaze towards her. And stops.

Because Steve isn’t quite sure what Thor or Dr. Foster are supposed to be, but the woman sitting next to him is wearing an all too familiar blue hat, her hair done up in victory rolls, bright eyes rolling above red painted lips.

She freezes when she catches a glimpse of his face.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she exclaims, dropping her head into her hands as she goes an interesting shade of pink. “I’m going to kill Stark.”

“Ma’am?”

“Ah!” Thor interrupts. “And this is Jane’s shield sister and my good friend, Darcy Lewis. Darcy, Steven Rogers, my shield brother Captain America.”

“Yeah,” Miss Lewis moans into her hands, “I know, Thor. Thanks, bud.”

“Miss Lewis,” Steve greets, trying to be gentle despite his shock. “I’m always happy to meet a friend of Thor’s.”

She peeks at him through her fingers. “Still going to kill Tony,” she declares, and finally drops her hands, pulling herself up to look him in the eye. “It’s nice to meet you, Captain Rogers.”

Her grip is firm, the material of her gloves surprisingly soft. “Just Steve, please, Miss Lewis,” he insists.

Miss Lewis narrows her eyes at him. “Then it’s Darcy, Steve. The only person to ever call me ‘Miss Lewis’ was my elementary school librarian.” She stops, and considers. “And Coulson, may his bureaucratic, jack-booted, MIB ass rest in peace.”

Steve blinks.

“And that was really inappropriate,” she continues to herself. “Wow. Way to go Darcy. Just make the best first impression all over the place.”

Steve bites back a smile, because she sounds more rueful than embarrassed.

“Right. I’m going to go get myself another drink, and then another one, and then another one until I’m too drunk to remember embarrassing myself in front of Captain America.” Miss Lewis goes to stand, but Steve catches her hand again before she can leave her seat.

“Miss Lewis— Darcy,” he amends at her glare, “trust me, I’m pretty accustomed to weathering embarrassment with Star Spangled Chorus Girls, I think we’ll both survive.”

Something that Steve can’t read passes over her face, but it’s quickly wiped away by a wry grin.

“Alright then, Steve. I’m trusting you on that. This—” she gestures at herself, the red and white striped skirt, the blue vest with the white stars at the collar, her gloves and hat and curls “—better not be brought up again one day to tease me with.”

Steve can feel his eyes twinkling. He’s not usually so at ease with beautiful women outside of his roll as Captain America, soldier and commander. But something about Darcy—maybe way the uniform and her wicked grin are both so familiar and yet out of context—sets him at ease. “Never,” he promises solemnly, not quite managing to smother the humour that must be in the curl of his mouth.

She stares at him through narrowed eyes. “You, sir, I like. You’re a troll, I can just tell.” She nods decisively. “Excellent, you can help me get back at Tony for promising that you wouldn’t be here in order to get me into this getup.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur of sniggering and dastardly plots; pauses to admire witches and ogres and fairies and pop culture icons as they parade past, emerging from the gloom and disappearing just as quickly; interruptions by various friends (Natasha dapper in a suit with an outrageous moustache of her very own and a top hat and cane, Clint wearing sparkling angel wings and a dress, Bruce slinking away from Tony’s grasp in a lab coat with unkempt hair (Steve isn’t actually certain if he’s dressed up as something or if Tony just dragged him out of the lab as is), Pepper gracefully stopping by in a flowing black dress, her identify almost obscured by the long, black wig); good drinks and excellent food and even better conversation. Dr. Foster—no, seriously, just call me Jane—ends up being chock full of ideas for petty pranks and Thor, although he does so carefully, is apt to pull out a story of one of Loki’s more successful tricks whose inner workings might lend itself to Steve and Darcy’s plotting. By the time the crowd has mostly dispersed and JARVIS has raised the lighting, they have a mostly outrageous and incoherent plan for revenge sketched out across paper napkins and most of Steve’s left arm.

“Alright, party animals,” Tony announces, dropping down to occupy the sliver of empty space left between Jane and the arm of the couch she and Thor are occupying, “party’s over. Scram.”

Darcy scrambles to gather up their papers, and Steve tugs down his shirtsleeves to cover the ink that had spilled over from their limited paper supply onto the canvas of his skin. Tony just rolls his eyes at them.

“Whatever, I don’t care. Just get lost so that I can waltz with my lovely Morticia.”

“Tony,” Pepper chides, sliding her hands down his shoulders from where she’s perched on the back of the cramped couch.

“Leather straps, red-hot pokers!” Tony exclaims, threading her fingers through hers.

Pepper laughs, and Darcy snorts beside him.

“Later, my dearest,” Pepper promises dryly. “I hope you all had a good time?” Her gaze is earnest as it darts around their group, but Steve feels it fall most heavily on him.

Everyone is making earnest noises, standing and stretching, preparing to head to their own apartments, but Steve holds Pepper’s gaze and smiles. He doesn’t know that it’s bittersweet with the ache of absent friends, enough heartache tucked into the corners to break Pepper’s heart.

“Thank you, Pepper,” Steve tells her, and his gaze glances to where Darcy and Jane are arguing good-naturedly and his smile lightening into that of a young man, “it was a wonderful party.”

Pepper’s eyes crinkle shut with a soft smile, full of grace. “I’m glad you came, Steve. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Steve ducks his head, blushing, and Darcy inadvertently rescues him by threading her arm through his own. “C’mon, secret agent man, you can walk me to down to the lobby and wait while I catch a cab. I might fall over in these heels without support.”

Steve turns his attention down to Darcy, ignoring Pepper’s considering eyes heavy on his back.

“Goodnight Pepper!” Darcy calls over Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks for a rocking party.”

“It was my party too,” Tony calls back, outrage edged with humour.

“Fuck you, Stark!”

“I’m in a monogamous relationship, Lewis, or I might take you up on that!”

Darcy spins, clutching at Steve for support and gestures rudely in Tony’s direction, to cheers from Jane and Clint.

“See you on Monday, Janey! Don’t you dare call me in the morning for a science emergency! My phone is going to be off!”

“Science waits for no woman!” Jane declares, and Darcy laughs.

“But science can wait for my hangover to go away. I’ll see you _Monday_.”

They wave to the remaining guests chuckling at the show, and then trudge together to the elevator.

“Phew,” Darcy whooshes, collapsing back against the rail as the doors slide shut. “I’m exhausted.”

Steve carefully leans next to her, conscientious of the space left between their arms. Darcy sags against him though, heedless of boundaries, to drop her head on his shoulder.

“I’m really glad you came, Steve. I think we should be friends.”

Steve laughs at her boldness, warmth spinning dizzy in his veins. “Yeah?”

“Yup!” Darcy declares definitively. “You’re an excellent partner in a prank war. This—” she waves the crumpled napkins still in her hand “—is a way better idea than leaving out a cardboard Captain America with accompanying motion activated speaker.”

“Wait!” Steve startles, dislodging Darcy. “That was _you_?”

Darcy fumbles, but catches her balance with the help of Steve’s hand at her elbow. “Um.” She looks at his face. “No?”

Steve narrows his eyes.

“I was trying to get back at Tony! He mocked one of Jane’s machines and my music choices! He needed to pay for the insult to our lab and our honour! And Jane made me promise after that thing with the dish soap and the frog when we were still in New Mexico that I wouldn’t try any pranks involving live animals ever again.”

“And you thought that Captain America would be a good substitute?”

“If I’d thought you would have been up to it, I totally would have introduced myself and asked your help. I wanted to hire a full troupe to dress up as the Star Spangled Chorus and do the entire war bonds shtick, but JARVIS told me that I wouldn’t be able to get them access to the labs. Or any of the other floors Tony frequents. Also, there’s no way I would have the money, but it would have been worth it. So instead I bought the Captain America cardboard cutout from that tourist kiosk up the street from the Tower and rigged up a motion activated speaker and pulled sound from that really crappy recording on Youtube that has managed to avoid being taken down for copyright infringement.”

“You—” Steve pauses, shakes his head. “Why was that proper revenge? And is that the reason you’re wearing one of the most accurate Star Spangled Chorus Girl costumes I’ve ever seen?”

“He _insulted my music_ , Steve!”

“He insulted your music. Of course.” Steve shakes his head. “Remind me to never say anything about what you’re listening to.”

“As long as you aren’t a heavy metal heathen who believes that the peak of good music was the eighties, then you should be fine.” Darcy pats him on the shoulder, and then tows him out of the elevator as the doors open.

As Steve lets Darry pull him across the floor from the elevator bay through the lobby, one of the security guards on duty hurries over to them. “Miss Potts has arranged for a driver to take you home, Miss Darcy,” he informs her, barely glancing at Steve. “He’s pulled up on the curb now.”

“Thanks, Omar.” Darcy smiles. “How did Elham’s fairy costume turn out?”

“Wonderful! My mother took her to that craft store you suggested; here, look at the wings.” He takes out his cellphone and hands Darcy the lit home screen. Steve catches a glimpse of a little girl with a gap-toothed smile that almost outshines the sparkles on her dress over Darcy’s shoulder.

“She looks adorable!” Darcy exclaims, handing back the phone. “Let her know that I especially love the wand, yeah? And that I suggest not eating too much candy?”

The security guard—Omar, Steve reminds himself—smiles softly back at Darcy. “Will do, Miss Darcy. And I appreciate the advice. She’ll take it if it’s from you.”

“Always. And say hello to Zeinab for me as well?”

“Of course. You have a good night Miss Darcy. You too, Captain Rogers.”

“Thanks again, Omar! Good night!”

Steve nods his head in greeting, and lets Darcy drag him along again, towards the doors.

“Do you know everyone’s names?” he asks her, bemused.

Darcy shrugs. “Not everyone, the Tower’s a big building, and we’ve only been here, like, a month and a half. But Omar is usually working on nights I can’t drag Jane out until late, and he’ll walk me to the subway if I don’t want to take a cab. He’s good people and his daughter, Elham, is a real sweetheart.”

“Not everyone?” Steve raises a sardonic brow. “So just mostly everyone.”

“Hey!” Darcy socks him in the arm, and then exaggeratedly shakes out her hand. “It’s called being friendly. You should try it.”

“I am friendly! I’m Captain America!”

“Whatever, Captain Awkward, you need to stop looking at everyone you meet like they’re going to try to force you to read _Atlas Shrugged_ because it’s “classical literature” or something.”

Steve glares at her where she’s looking back at him as she shoulders the lobby doors open. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m jealous,” Darcy says. “Your life is better off not understanding that reference.” She stops on the sidewalk, whirling around, and Steve comes up onto his toes in the attempt to avoid running into her. Darcy continues on, undeterred by Steve’s windmilling. “Anyways. Yes. You need more friends, Steve. Which is why I’m taking pity on you and giving you my number. I expect regular text messages and I’m going to inundate you with cat pictures.”

“… cat pictures?”

“Sharing cat pictures is a perfectly valid form of friendship! Also, I’m going to drag you to some art galleries. Pepper says that you like art, and Jane is suspicious of anything that isn’t science and refuses to go with me while Thor tends to get us kicked out for being too loud.”

“I—” Steve stops himself, and gives in. It’s not like he doesn’t want to. “I would like that, Darcy. Thanks.”

She peers up at him, not trusting his easy acquiescence. “Good, now give me your hand.”

Steve sighs, but holds out his hand, letting Darcy whip out a pen and scribble her number on the back of it, squished between a rough diagram of Tony’s lab and his thumb.

“Text me. We’re going to plan a day at the Met. We can work around your mission schedule, but no bailing on me, yeah?”

“I won’t, Darcy.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Steve hooks his pinky through hers, and they shake, solemnly.

“Excellent. Well, I better get home.”

Steve helps her into the backseat of the sleek town car pulled up to the curb.

“Goodnight Darcy,” he tells her, her face lit up by the soft yellow light inside the car.

“Goodnight Steve. Don’t forget to text!” she calls as he carefully closes the door.

[I won’t forget] Steve texts after fumbling through setting up a new contact, glances up to watch the taillights disappear. [I’m looking forward to the Met.]

They don’t really get the chance; Fury calls Steve and Natasha to D.C.

Despite the distance and an acquaintance built on little more than a single laughter-filled night, Darcy keeps in touch. She gets a hold of Steve’s email and address—maybe from Tony, but Steve wouldn’t put it past Natasha given the smug look she wear when she catches him snorting over a worn copy of _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ —in order to inundate him with cat pictures and the latest instalment of Tony and Jane’s ongoing feud over the Foster lab’s equipment and music playlists and selfies with Thor at various New York tourist attractions and gifts of books or cookies or extremely cheap Iron Man knockoff action figures. Steve gets to know her; the kindness in “Welcome home” text messages that ring through when he turns his phone back on after a gruelling mission and the irrepressible humour that always echoes through her voice on the other side of the phone.

Darcy is Jane’s person, which makes her Thor’s too, and if the way she talks about Jane’s latest escapade—annoyance wrapped loosely around a solid core of friendship—makes his breath catch sometimes for who she could remind him of, Darcy is still a distant satellite of the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D., someone separate from the life Steve lives. She is utterly of the modern age, and Steve’s ghosts don’t linger on her shoulders or in her eyes.

So when Rumlow comes up behind Steve and gets an eye-full of a smiling Darcy perched on the Rhode Island ferry—her arms outstretched and sunshine in her hair, what must be Thor’s blurry finger caught at the edge of the frame—and the teasing from the STRIKE team starts up, Steve lets it roll over him with a tight, blank face and doesn’t open up texts from Darcy while at the Triskelion anymore.

Whatever Steve and Darcy are—pen-pals of a sort, maybe—it is not for other people to touch. Not when Steve still can’t look around without seeing the line of his jaw or the star on his chest emblazoned on shirts and across the news. Not when Steve goes where Fury tells him, discontent aching in his teeth. Not when all Steve can see somedays is everything that isn’t there.

Steve goes back to his S.H.I.E.L.D.-provided apartment, echoes of the false room he woke up to ringing in the paint on the walls and the knickknacks on the shelves, pulls up the latest playlist to boom through the tinny laptop speakers (“catchy pop for ridiculous dancing”) and finds the number for the Thai restaurant whose 4-star rating on yelp Darcy had forwarded him (“[went here while in D.C. on a field trip ages ago. but it still exists. !!!]”).

The record player in the corner of the living room glares balefully at him. Steve turns his back on it and goes to pull out plates.

 

**4.**

S.H.I.E.L.D. burns to ash under purifying fire, leaving behind agents with the afterimage of the kraken in their eyes, who scatter to the winds.

The only thing that keeps Steve from tearing the world down to find Bucky is Sam’s cautious voice at his side and Natasha’s warning. He’s going to find him, there’s no doubt about that, Steve is going to find Bucky because there is no other option, but he’s learning, slowly, to look before leaping. To wear the goddamn parachute, Steve, as Darcy had ranted at him when someone had sent her the security footage from the Quinjet.

With S.H.I.E.L.D. gone and Hydra emerging from its grave, the Avengers are needed more than ever, pulling Steve away from the shadowy edges of society where he’s looking for the footsteps of the ghost, back to the shining brilliance of the Avengers. It’s tough, ugly work, but there’s nothing shadowed about what the Avengers do; they’re too obvious for that. Which is the point, in many ways.

It’s a relief; Steve has had enough of shadows. He never was made for spy-craft.

Sam claps him on the back as he leaves, and heads off in his own direction, chasing a new lead sent their way by one of Sam’s many contacts in the Armed Forces.

Steve trudges back to the Tower and the cardboard boxes containing the remnants of his D.C. apartment that Pepper had arranged to be sent to New York. It isn’t— it isn’t _home_. But it’s safe. And it’s Steve’s. And most of his friends are there.

The living ones, at least.

He’s barely been in the Tower three hours when excited knocking pulls him from where he’s emptying boxes and finding space for books.

“Steve!” Darcy cries when he opens the door.

She’s vaguely soot-stained around the edges and she’s missed a spot of grease on her forehead and her hair is a frazzled mess pulled back by a straining hair tie and she’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

Oh.

“You’re home!” Darcy continues, and pulls him down for a hug.

She’s warm in his arms, solid and real and present, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I would have popped up sooner, but Tony and Jane were running an experiment, and they can’t be trusted alone—it always ends in explosions and arguing—so I had to stay until we were done and then something caught fire and Dum-E wasn’t there with the fire extinguisher because Tony had banished him to time-out earlier for adding chia seeds to his gross smoothies and so I had to do it but by that time the fire had grown and it almost got my sleeve but it all worked out, even though Tony and Jane ended up arguing about whose fault it was. JARVIS agreed to referee so I could come see you!”

Steve blinks and tries to process. “You didn’t get burnt?” he asks, lifting her arm gently to inspect it for bandages.

“Steve,” Darcy chides, laughing. “I’m fine. Now say hi.”

He stops, and slowly drops her hand. “Hi Darcy.”

Her smile steals his breath. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Steve shakes himself, trying to settle back into the camaraderie that has blossomed so easily over text messages and emails and care packages and calls. He’s wrong-footed and awkward and he doesn’t know why. It’s just Darcy.

“I don’t know,” he teases, the words feeling misshapen in his mouth, “you didn’t exactly give me room to start there, Darce.”

She sniffs. “You’re a master tactician, aren’t you? You could have figured something out.”

“I know better than to go up against a force of nature. Best to just get out of the way.”

Darcy peers up at him. “Liar. You couldn’t stand down if you tried, it’s not in your nature. But I’m not here for the heavy stuff. Did you finish _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ yet?”

Steve lets Darcy push her way into his apartment, and back into his life. Not that he minds. Darcy is laughter and lightness, and she doesn’t carry ghosts in her eyes. The only ash on her is from miscalculated science experiments and the joy of exploration.

They settle into a routine, or as much as a routine as allowable by their commitments to Jane’s research and Avengers’ business and the busy life at the Tower. Steve orders takeout for Thursday Movie Night. Darcy drags them both out of the Tower and to the latest art exhibit or to strange, delightful graffiti displays or to high school art shows. Steve starts making playlists filled with his favourite new music, great sprawling things with no regard for genre or decade. Darcy greets him with a soft smile and a hug when he returns empty-handed from another failed lead: another crack in his already shattered heart.

They settle into friendship, and Steve does his best to forget how his breath catches at the way sunshine glints off of Darcy’s hair or how his heart startles when he can get her to laugh that uncontrolled laugh full of giggles and snorts and gasps.

“Steve,” Darcy breathes over his shoulder.

Steve startles, slamming the sketchbook shut.

He hasn’t drawn in what feels like forever. But Darcy had dragged him down to her favourite craft store in pursuit of some yarn to finish up the mittens she’s knitting for Pepper, and they’d had a decent, if small, corner dedicated to good quality sketchbooks and pencils and charcoal. And while Darcy had chatted about a new supplier with the older woman manning the till, Steve had been drawn by the promise of blank pages, his fingers itching for charcoal to hold in a way he’d thought he’d lost to the cold. Darcy had just smiled and waited patiently while he’d made his purchase, her own bag of yarn and glitter swinging at her wrist.

He’s lost most of the past four days drawing hands and eyes and noses, only leaving the Tower to head over to his favourite coffee shop to do some people watching, practicing capturing businesspeople checking their phones and parents with children perched on their hips and aggressively cheerful baristas.

And then a set of eyes had turned into cold, empty pits of hell burning over a mask with unkempt hair that Bucky would have never stood for, not when he was always so careful with his appearance, always so aware of the Romanian ringing through his house.

“Steve,” Darcy repeats, coming around the couch to perch beside him, her small hand so gentle on his own over the cover of the sketchbook.

Steve can’t look at her, not with Bucky’s voice being overlaid by the memory of the Winter Soldier cocking his head, demanding “Who the hell is Bucky?”

“Will you—” she pauses, but steels herself, her mouth setting mulishly. “Will you tell me about him?”

Steve shakes his head, a jarring motion, trying to push away the memories crashing against the wall he’s built in his mind. It feels like if he dares say anything, the words will cut his tongue to pieces.

“Okay,” Darcy tells him, something aching and empty in her voice. “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to, Steve. I just thought— Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Steve rasps. “No. You— He— Bucky deserves to be remembered.” And oh, it does cut him to pieces, but not his tongue. Because Bucky— _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_ —should have never been forgotten, not by Steve, and certainly not by himself. What Hydra did was terrible, was the worst thing Steve has ever seen, but Steve, too, is to blame. Steve who never found him. Steve who let him pass into memory and fade into a picture on a museum wall.

“I don’t—” Steve stops, unsure of where to begin. Not when Bucky is as much part of himself as his lungs. How do you explain breathing?

“How did you meet?” Darcy prompts, settling back on the couch, her small shoulder strong and solid where it touches him, bolsters him.

Steve starts at the beginning.

 

**5.**

“Steve, do you—” Darcy had paused, grimacing. She’d shifted her weight from one foot to the other, radiating discomfort. “Do you want to come home with me for Christmas?”

Steve had startled from where he was fetching mugs from the cupboard.

“You don’t have to!” she’d rushed out. “I mean. I get that it might be weird. But Jane is taking Thor back to London to spend it with her mom, and Bruce is going on that mediation retreat or whatever it is, and Natasha warned me that she and Clint aren’t going to be around, and Pepper insisted that she and Tony are just going to do something small without any dying or houses getting blown up or exposure to unstable super soldier compounds. So I just thought you shouldn’t have to be alone for Christmas.”

“Is your family okay with this?” Steve would never want to impose.

“Yes! Absolutely. Gran insisted, actually, when I mentioned that you would be alone.”

“You talk to your grandmother about me?” Steve still wasn’t quite sure why that had filled him with a warm glow.

Darcy had stared at him, something strange lurking in the back of her eyes. “Of course I do. You’re one of my best friends, we hang out all the time, you were bound to come up in conversation. And Gran always likes to hear about my friends.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So. Um. Do you want to?”

Steve had thought about it: a long, cold Christmas in the Tower with maybe only the briefest visit from Pepper and Tony for company, or Christmas with Darcy. It really hadn’t been a question.

“Yes, Darcy. I would love to.” She’d smiled, awkward anticipation bleeding out of her. “But only if you’re sure I won’t be an inconvenience.”

“Steve,” Darcy had reassured him, “with three children and seven grandchildren, plus significant others and a handful of great-grandchildren, I don’t think Gran is going to notice another one.”

“I do eat a lot,” Steve had pointed out.

“You haven’t seen the Lewises cook,” Darcy had informed him tartly.

Which is why Steve has found himself in front of an oversized house in suburban Idaho, colourful mittens keeping out the cold.

“And your grandmother doesn’t mind us showing up a few days early?” he checks. Again. For the fourth time since they’d filtered through security at LaGuardia. Tony had offered them use of one of his private planes, but Darcy had shot him a scathing look, and they’d flown commercial. Steve isn’t sure his legs have forgiven her yet.

“Yes, Steve. Again. I could only make it home for a couple of days last year, since Jane had some important experiments running after the Convergence, and I wanted to stay longer this time. And we need to be back in New York for New Years, or Tony will pout that we missed his party. So. A few days early, which means we get Gran to ourselves and you can settle in before the horde descends.”

“Alright, fine,” he laughs. “Although I’m sure your family isn’t that bad.”

“You’re going to learn, but keep thinking that if it makes you feel better.” Darcy shrugs as she fumbles around the doorframe. “Ah ha!” she exclaims, brandishing the key, and lets them in through the side door.

They hang coats and pull off mittens and hats and scarves, dusting snow across the carpet. “Just leave the bags here,” Darcy tells him, “we’ll deal with them later, once I double check which rooms we’re in. Gran! We’re here!”

“In the family room!” a female voice calls back, reedy with age.

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Lazy. Or dramatic, she’s probably being dramatic.”

Steve follows her out of the laundry room and through to the kitchen, down a hallway, around a corner. It’s… a home. Full of colour and worn around the edges, with pictures of far off places and unfamiliar faces that share Darcy’s nose or eyebrows. Darcy stops before the entrance of the next room, something pinched and apologetic on her mouth.

“I’m— Sorry about this Steve, I would have warned you.” She squeezes his hand, and then darts into the living room, towards an old woman in an armchair, a book and a cup of tea set to the side.

"Georgiana," Darcy's grandmother crows, standing to pul her in for a hug, "there you are, my dear."

And Steve is momentarily stuck on the "Georgiana", so it takes him a moment longer than it should have to look past the long years creasing her eyes and smile. But Steve never forgets a face. Not even one so changed by time. 

"Alice," he breathes. 

"Steven Grant Rogers," Alice Kingsley grins, none of her old wickedness lost, "took you long enough.”

Steve feels gut-punched.

Darcy’s Star Spangled Chorus Girl costume on that first night they met. A handful of Tony’s jokes. Natasha’s considering eyes when she stumbled upon the two of them tossing popcorn back and forth in front of the big television in the common space one rainy afternoon. The look Darcy can get sometimes, like she’s biting back on a secret. All of it, amounting to this; Alice Kingsley, an old woman, her grey hair pulled back into a simple braid instead of victory rolls and not a stitch of red, white and blue to be seen, standing beside her granddaughter, smiling at him.

The last time Steve saw Alice Kingsley, she was on a stage in the middle of war-torn Italy, helping rescue him from the dark-eyed, bloodstained masses with no time for Captain America and his war bonds.

Darcy interrupts the heavy silence hovering awkwardly in the middle of the pale yellow living room. “I’m going to go make tea. Steve, sit.” She rushes out of the room, like hounds are at her heels.

Steve sits—collapses, more like—onto a pastel love-seat. His hands, he notes distantly, are trembling.

“I didn’t think that you would come,” Alice says, peering at him through eyes that are still a sharp blue.

“Darcy didn’t tell me,” Steve manages through his shock.

“Ah.” Alice shakes her head ruefully. “She’s a sly one, my Georgiana. She knew I wanted to see you, and I’m guessing she thought you needed to see me, and wasn’t going to chance hearing no.” Alice’s gaze is piercing, shredding the haze Steve has wrapped around memory, around the past.

“I would have—” Alice raises an eyebrow, disbelieving. “I just didn’t know how,” Steve admits, looking around at the constellation print on the wall, at the picture of young Alice in her wedding dress, at the poinsettia poised on the piano.

“No, my dear, I don’t suppose you would.”

When Steve dares look back up at Alice, he can barely bear the terrible kindness on her face.

“Your, your wedding,” Steve says, motioning to the picture, “tell me about your wedding.”

Alice nods, and moves to pick up the lovely, delicate frame before settling herself next to Steve on the love-seat. “We married in September,” Alice starts.

When Darcy finally creeps back into the room, she is, in fact, carrying tea, but she was gone a good hour. The tears are drying on Steve’s cheeks. She settles at their feet after handing them cups of tea, leaning against Alice’s knees so that her grandmother can card through her hair.

Steve breathes in the steam, relaxing at the smell of Peggy’s favourite Assam.

Alice takes a sip before dropping back into memory, the lives of the various women who made up the Star Spangled Chorus spinning out on her voice.

Alice talks for hours, until she’s hoarse. It takes time for Steve to crack himself open enough to dare to ask questions, and though it makes the dates of each death hurt more, it’s a relief, almost, like airing out an attic or unearthing a forgotten book.

Darcy reheats leftovers for them to eat, and when they settle around the kitchen table, she relieves them by talking animatedly of the latest development in her favourite anime, of Tony and Jane’s most recent argument, of Thor’s top five favourite New York falafel carts. Steve lets the cheerful chatter wash over him, buoying his exhausted, aching heart.

He helps Darcy at the sink as they wash the dishes, humming songs under their breath as Alice watches on.

“I think,” Darcy says, turning to her grandmother, “that we should all take an early night. What rooms are we in?”

“Steve will be in the blue guest room, my dear. And you can have the sunroom, but only until Elizabeth arrives with Dan and Susan. We’re a bit short on space, I’m afraid, so you and Steve will have to share, unless you want to join the girls in the children’s room.”

“Usurped by my own older sister and shoved in with the kids!” Darcy mock-glares at her grandmother. “I see where I rate. I’m bunking with Steve, then. On the floor,” she assures him when he blushes.

“I can’t make you sleep on the floor!” Steve protests.

“Well, I’m not making you sleep on the floor. You’re a guest. It would be rude.” Darcy has her most mulish expression on her face, so Steve doesn’t bother trying to argue more.

“You can always share.” Alice grins.

“Gran!”

“What?” she shrugs. “It’s big enough. You won’t even know the other person is there.”

“Enough out of you,” Darcy commands, ushering Steve back to the entry where they left their bags. “You’ll offend poor Steve’s sensibilities.”

Darcy misses Alice’s dancing eyes at that last comment, but Steve doesn’t. “Sensibilities, Steve? I thought we shocked those right out of you?”

Steve can’t help but grin back, all wickedness, making Darcy stutter to a stop.

“Nope,” Darcy declares. “I don’t want to know. C’mon, Cassanova, I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

Steve lets her hustle him upstairs, taking as many bags from her grasp as she’ll allow.

The staircase especially is filled with a lifetime of memories: successive generations and so much love. It makes Steve ache, but so much more muted than it would have been even a day ago. It’s a gift, really, to see that Alice—crazy, madcap Alice who could draw the sharpest line with eyeliner and who laughed the loudest at bawdy jokes while they waited backstage—got to live. It’s a gift to know that all those people he left behind, they _lived_. Only Steve was frozen, unable to watch the world move on. Only Steve, and Bucky.

“Here you are,” Darcy declares as they enter a bedroom, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Sheets will be clean. Bathroom is across the hall and two doors down, there should be towels in the closet for you. Help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen; we’ll probably go grocery shopping tomorrow, and I’ll show you around the neighbourhood. The rest of the family should start showing up the day before Christmas Eve. Any other questions?”

She’s asking about sleeping arrangements, but Steve has a question pressing on him that far outweighs the light laughter of dinner.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, heartsore and bruised. “Why did you wait so long, Darce?”

Darcy startles, eyes wide and pained, and curls into herself. Steve sighs. He doesn’t want to make her feel guilty; he just wants to understand why.

“Darcy, hey,” he coaxes, pushing her hair back behind her ears with all the gentleness he can muster so that she can no longer hide behind it. “I’m not mad, okay. I just—” he trails off, because Steve isn't quite sure just what, exactly, he is. He is too much: joy at talking with someone who remembers, remembers him and what he was as a real person and not just a file or a history book entry or a propaganda slogan, remembers what the world was like and remembers the people he left behind; but sorrow too, and grief, for all that he missed and all the faces he will never again see; regret, for all the time he's wasted; and hope, because all those brave souls he fought beside, they learned how to come home from the war (and Steve is so tired of fighting).

Darcy fidgets with her overlong sleeves. She holds herself stiff against his touch. 

“I—” She shakes her head, threatening once again to spill her curls into her face. “Because you weren’t ready, Steve. You wouldn’t have wanted to hear it.”

It’s gentle, more gentle than Steve’s fingers brushing along the shell of her ear, but he flinches back as if hit regardless. 

“You didn’t— you didn't see the way you used to watch Tony like he was a primed explosive, or the shadows on your face when anyone brought up the Howling Commandoes or the way you couldn't even bare to go see Peggy and face everything that you lost. So I told myself I would tell you when you were finally ready to look into your past, but you never did. And I didn’t want to throw my gran in your face when you made it pretty evident that it could shatter you to pieces! God, Steve, how would that conversation have gone? You would have run.”

And that isn’t— Steve would never— Steve doesn’t run. He's never known how, according to—

And Steve trips over the thought, over the name, skittering away from that pile of memories he's barely dared even acknowledge. Because it hurts too much. Even after telling Darcy about growing up with Bucky, it hurts too much.

He hadn’t dared tell her about the train or the fall, couldn’t bear speaking aloud what it was like to look Bucky in the eye and see only the Winter Soldier.

“And I know. I know you went to see Peggy. And I know it’s getting better, but I just. I didn’t know where to start. Not after it had been so long. And it was just— it was just easier to drag you here and let Gran do the talking for me.”

Darcy is looking at him, her hands wrapped around her elbows, tears in her eyes as she shifts her jaw, trying not to cry.

“God, Darcy,” Steve breathes. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Darcy demands. “You aren’t supposed to be sorry Steve, not about that. What you’ve been through? No. You never have to be sorry for protecting yourself. You never have to be sorry for how you deal. But I should have been honest.”

Steve reaches out again, and this time, Darcy does not pull away.

“Okay,” he tell her. “Okay. No apologizing. But you’re forgiven, Darce. I forgive you.”

Darcy nods, just slightly, not enough to shake off his touch. Her tears start, silent things, and he wipes them away.

“I forgive you.”

Darcy collapses into him, burying her face in his chest, and Steve clutches back. They rock with the force of the day’s emotions.

“Sorry,” Darcy mumbles when she finally pulls away. “I got your shirt wet.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Right, okay.” Darcy shakes herself, clearing her head. “Bed. We should both get to it. Goodnight Steve,” she tells him, and reaches up on her toes to feather a kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t,” Steve says, grabbing her hand before she can leave. “Just. Stay.”

Darcy looks up at him, confusion and shadows.

“Please,” Steve says, embarrassed. “Stay.”

What she’s looking for, Steve doesn’t know, but Darcy scans his face, eyes soft.

“Okay,” she promises him, “I’ll stay.”

 

**+1.**

When Steve wakes to hushed voices on the stairs, there’s a weight across his arm and dawn is only just starting to peer through the curtains.

Mariposa hushes the younger children with a “shush, momma said we aren’t supposed to be up yet, but if we’re quiet, we can go see what Santa brought”. They tiptoe down the stairs, murmuring to one another, excitement humming.

Steve smiles, and shifts his attention from the sound coming through the door to the weight in his arms.

Darcy’s lashes sweep a delicate curve across her cheek, her mouth is parted softly in sleep. Steve stares, admiring the way the colours from the Christmas lights lining the inside of the window cast rainbows across her skin.

He wants to reach out and touch her, make sure she’s real, but he refrains.

Steve closes his eyes, prepared to try to sleep for another hour, but not even trying to shift Darcy off of him and back onto her side of the bed, when an almighty crash resounds from the family room. Darcy startles awake and Steve goes for the door, half expecting to hear children screaming at an attack, but Susan starts yelling at Pip for knocking over a side-table displaying a poinsettia, and they both relax.

“Oops,” Darcy yawns, sitting up and stretching. “Oh well. Merry Christmas Steve.”

Steve drops down to sit on the bed, adrenaline fading as quickly as it came.

“Merry Christmas, Darcy. Did you sleep well?”

Darcy yawns again, runs her fingers through her hair, scowling when they catch on a snarl. Steve can’t take his eyes from the sight of her so unguarded and soft.

“Mhmm. You’re warm.”

Steve jolts.

“Oh, yeah,” Darcy says, “sorry about that, I totally woke up and realized I’d stealth-snuggled in my sleep, but you were warm and I was comfy, so I didn’t move.”

She’s watching him with those shadowed eyes, the ones that hold impossible depths and unfathomable secrets. Steve had thought that the only secret she was keeping was Alice. He stares at her, confused, and it’s only because he’s starting back at her that Steve catches the way her eyes dart down to his mouth, then back.

And _oh_.

“Darcy,” Steve murmurs, reaching out to cup her sleep-warm cheek, “can I kiss you?”

She nods with wide-eyes, a smile blooming on her face.

Steve leans forward, time going sticky amber between them, presses his lips to hers, and makes her smile his.

Downstairs, children are calling for pancakes and parents and grandparents are shuffling, starting the coffee and yawning as they collapse onto couches and chairs.

Steve kisses Darcy, and the future unfurls before them, shining and warm and theirs.

There is no fear of ghosts here.

Shadows linger, but there are also Christmas lights and dawn spilling through the window, and Steve is not afraid of the dark.

Steve kisses Darcy, and he finds absolution in her thumb stroking along his jaw and the taste of her smile on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't realized until after I submitted this to dlss2016 that part **5.** is informed by a weird headcanon for this particular iteration of Darcy Lewis: Darcy's full name is Georgiana Darcy Lewis. Her family has a weird tradition of naming children after book characters, hence her grandmother is Alice Kingsley (of _Alice in Wonderland_ ) and her older sister is Elizabeth Bennet Lewis. Darcy goes by her middle name because of angsty teenage reasons, but her gran has always only called her by her first name. So. Just in case you were confused.


End file.
